Sports fan. Connoisseur of good music (especially on vinyl). Consumer of the finest craft beers. Environmental activist. History geek. Dudeist Priest. Hunter S. Thompson junkie. And I write a little. Mostly though, I’m a dad. But I am unlike my dad. I am still the breadwinner, but laundry, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, hugging, crying, disciplining and nurturing are also part of my routine. I am a domestic machine…I am, like many dads of my generation, The Domestic Warrior.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Fourth And Long: Ray Guy, HOF Class Of 2014

Appeared on Football.com in August 2014

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

He is an entrenched stereotype, fuel for jock-sarcasm, the
butt of football jokes and the jester in the locker room. What could change
everything? What would it take to earn the ultimate sign of respect from his
peers? What would give football’s clown his day?

We have the long overdue answer. Drum roll…

Be a first round pick. Get elected to seven Pro Bowl teams.
Earn first-team All-Pro honors six times. Win three Super Bowls. Be a member of
the NFL’s 1970s All-Decade team and 75th Anniversary team. Execute
your job 619 consecutive times without failure (in this case, a blocked kick).
Have the trophy for best college player at your position named after you.

That resume belongs to Ray Guy. The question, Jeopardy
fans, is “What does it take for a punter to be elected to the Pro Football Hall
of Fame?” Now we know – finally. The credentials seem overwhelming, but it took
an endorsement by the Hall of Fame’s Seniors Committee, 28 years after Guy’s
retirement, to finally unlock Canton’s doors. Why? Because Guy was “just a
punter.”

When he strides through the Hall’s doors on August 2, 2014,
Guy, my uncle, will become the first exclusive punter to be enshrined. Think
about that. Not the uncle part. That was a joke, unfortunately. In the first 60
years of the Pro Football Hall of Fame’s existence, the NFL never saw fit to
bestow its highest individual honor on a player who exclusively made his living
by dropping a ball on his foot and launching it into the heavens (or, in modern
terms, Jerry Jones’ ego-matching big screen).

NFL…that’s a disgraceful record. If you have ever played
sports, at damn near any level, among the first lessons you learn is to respect
your teammates and the value of individual roles within the whole. A point
guard distributes the basketball and a center rebounds. Leadoff batters take a
lot of pitches; batters hit behind runners with less than two outs. A tackle
blocks, a wide receiver catches, a quarterback throws and, despite the NFL’s latent
acknowledgement, a punter punts.

This is a bit personal, not because I finally share a
surname with a Hall of Famer, but because in a punter I see legitimate, ignored
and serially mocked value. A good punter can neutralize a dynamic return man,
control field position and consistently put a lot of demoralizing green between
the opponent’s offense and the end zone. Punters are the equivalent of a
three-point specialist in the NBA or a late inning defensive replacement in MLB
– all key cogs to a winning formula.

Fine, they don’t always meet your image of a gridiron hero.
Save for Todd Sauerbrun, look like they spend more time in yoga poses or within
arms reach of a beer than they do under a bar stuffed on both ends with iron.
They are quirky. Their shoes don’t always match. They’ve worn watches on the
field (Reggie Roby’s legacy). They don’t run 4.3 40-yard dashes, blow up
running backs in the hole or somersault defenders at the goal line. Being a man
of average build, marginal athleticism and endearing idiosyncrasies, I can
appreciate that. But that doesn’t mean punters aren’t part of the team. It
doesn’t mean they aren’t football players. They are. My proof? Ray Guy’s
bust.